Alice Under Discipline, Part 2

by Garth ToynTanen

  At higher levels the cute fairytale country cottage look returned, although the rooms beyond were mostly bare and used primarily for storage, giving the windows a darkly vacant, dusty and indifferent air. Only at the very highest point of the main house - the dormer windows lining the inner side of the long gable-ended roof - did the bars return and that frosty-eyed look catch the sun like a dusting of icing sugar. This was where the schoolroom resided with its Victoriana furnishings; its floor standing blackboard, its iron-framed and bench-seated school desks and the schoolmarm desk up on its raised dais overseeing it all. It was also where she’d had the gym and ‘dance studio’ built for her two inmates - for which she had employed a suitably implacable gym mistress to match.

  She smiled to herself again: No one in her right mind would have hired a woman who was actually listed on the sexual offender’s register to be in charge of two such vulnerable and fragile personalities as those two had become. But the very fact that the woman couldn’t be trusted under such circumstances, that she could be expected to be exploitative was actually an advantage here: With the sort of sentence she would have hanging over her once she’d made one slip she could be relied upon to be the very soul of discretion. And the way she’d set it up, the sheer magnitude of temptation she had placed in the woman’s way, she would definitely make that slip, take that step - she had already, in fact; she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

  Looking about the thought struck her that it was like inspecting a prison. A prison! Yes, it was indeed just exactly that. That was what she had created here for her stepdaughter, heiress to all of this. In a way it was difficult to prevent herself pitying the poor pair whose youthfulness was fading within the shelter of these walls and under the protection of the bars crisscrossing the windows. But hand-in-hand along with that sense of pity there was a strange sort of frisson. It somehow excited her to think of her stepdaughter as a pitiable figure. Her heart pounded in her chest - blessed with a lively imagination as she was, her mind overflowed with thoughts of the various impediments she would shower on her stepdaughter.

  Alice was pretty, young and potentially quite rich, and possessed of such beautiful prospects. It all made for the girl being seen as a pitiable figure all the more... piquant... by contrast. Her mind filled with the images of earlier that day, of the two of them, Alice, her stepdaughter, and Angel, the girl’s partner in incarceration, arranged face-to-face over the opposite ends of the iron-framed park-bench-style garden seat beneath the horse-chestnut tree at the centre of the quadrangle. She saw again the pair’s tightly stretched buttocks, each girl’s bottom shuddering in turn like rippling blancmange, as wielding a heavy split-tongue leather strap from over her shoulder the two girls’ governess, Miss Daphne Larkspear, stepped smartly to-and-thro, first to one end and then the other.

  She heard again the fabric of that out-dated nurse-uniform style dress the woman had now taken to wearing, with its prim white collar and cuffs, rustling like dried leaves as she moved, she jumped again at the crack of the leather and shivered at the piglet squeals of the girls - and she felt a familiar tingle begin somewhere unmentionable. She watched in her mind’s eye, her recall Technicolor sharp, as Alice once again lay twitching and squirming under the stinging, snaking bites of the governess’ twin-tongued leather lash as it flicked its way relentlessly across her bare, quivering haunches, the drum-taut flesh as red as a swollen ripe tomato. She heard the venom in the woman’s voice vying with poorly disguised pleasure as she had announced her intention to ‘whip the skin off your fat backsides, the two of you’.

  Then she saw - in her imagination now, her accurate powers of recall no longer sufficient - her Alice, the girl’s pretty smile blighted by orthodontic wire and cemented clips. She heard the girl’s once strident, confident tones reduced to a childishly half-witted lisping, her eloquence hampered by an ill-fitted dental plate - and she felt her nipples harden. The thought of ugly heavy ham-stringing leg braces, all clattering metal and flapping leather straps, came to her, and of hobbling weighty orthopaedic shoes - the sort polio victims might once have found themselves confined in. And she felt her nipples harden still further, the sensitive, turgid flesh throbbing and protruding revealingly from beneath the crisp white fabric of her shirt-style blouse, the starched material already thrust outward, tent-like, courtesy of the high, open-fronted, bullet style cups sported by the long-line bra she had on beneath.

  There came a crackling; it made her blood freeze until she realised it was only shaking of leaves, the movement produced by the passage of a startled squirrel crashing through the branches. It broke through the torrid internal atmosphere of the moment. She was almost grateful for the interruption; the beads of sweat beginning to break out on her forehead were testament to that. But the image of that thrashing of her stepdaughter, and of that other girl’ Angel, seemed burned into her retinas; it just wouldn’t leave her alone, she couldn’t battle against it. Or rather it was the image of their governess - and her own ex-teacher, Miss Daphne Larkspear - standing over the two of them that she couldn’t get out of her head, standing there in that medical-world style uniform of hers; part Victorian governess straight out the story books, part old-time British hospital matron.

  Dressed in that latter manner the woman seemed to radiate a sort of magnetism, some sort of charismatic force of personality capable of annihilating every shred of an individual’s will, hers included. Yet there was a kind of strange kindness about Daphne Larkspear that was nevertheless quite inseparable from the severity she was capable of and which could be read in her steely, yet undeniably attractive, features.

  She was supposed to be Miss Larkspear’s employer, yet the woman thought nothing of correcting her for some trifle, just as if she were still wearing a school dress. Albeit, she did it subtly, gently, almost as if expecting her employer not to notice, but it was humiliating nonetheless. More than once, of late, she’d felt her cheeks involuntarily burning, her face turning scarlet with unaccustomed shame when criticised for one thing or another.

  On the one hand she worried the woman was beginning to hold her in contempt. On the other, she could all too easily see herself on her knees, her tears coalescing on her lashes and her ex-schoolmistress standing over her in her navy-blue dress and white apron, collar and cuffs, her hands on her hips and a look of displeased scorn on her face... And it excited her. She felt herself shiver, the goose pimples rising; putting down the sensation to the chilling effects of a sudden late-summer gust coupled with the deep shadows of the quadrangle she shrugged off the thought.

  This woman she had hired as governess was ardently devoted to discipline and thrashing the chubby behinds of attractive late teen females - and in that she was perfect. But she’d have to take steps to ensure Daphne Larkspear did not overstep her station in life. It had been a bloody cheek for her to criticise the type of blouse she usually wore, saying its soft femininity ‘lacked gravitas’ when it came to imposing her will over her stepdaughter. Yes, it had been a bloody liberty; and yet she now found herself wearing this crisply starched shirt-blouse with its stiff high collar that she felt was largely the cause of the perspiration on her brow. That wasn’t to mention the heavily underwired longline bra she had on underneath it - that had been one of Miss Larkspear’s suggestions also; though she had to admit the aggressive thrust it gave her bustline did wonders for her confidence when dealing with the girls.

  And now the woman had stipulated a particular skirt she wanted her to wear in place of her customary jodhpurs, saying the latter were too ‘manly’ and robbed her of her ‘natural feminine authority’. The trouble was, the arguments Daphne Larkspear offered up in support of her views could be so bloody forceful, so difficult to counter. She’d tried already to face the woman down but found it surprisingly difficult to avoid being seized by an extraordinary feeling of weak-kneed deference whenever in the presence of her ex-teacher. It was that previous relationship that was the problem h
ere - she realised that now - but the question remained: What was she to do about it? She certainly could not let the woman continue dictating to her what she should and should not wear... And she certainly couldn’t go on entertaining those out-of - character contrary fantasies that seemed to be worming their way into her subconscious; another hark-back to that schooldays crush, she supposed...

  She almost laughed out loud at that latter reflection - the revelation had somehow lightened the mood. Slipping a key from the ring at her hip she slipped it in the padlock guarding the gate to the basement walkway, smiling as she did so. Slipping the padlock’s clasp from the chain securing the hinged iron work, the heavy chain wheezing off rusty fragments as it swung loose and clanging noisily against the railings, she made her way down the stone steps to the basement area. She aimed to rehabilitate the old servant’s entrance: If her two guests were to be put to work in the outside from time to time it seemed only apt.

  Had it been apt to dress the girls in short flared-skirted black dresses with prim white lacy caps, aprons and cuffs and with the scantiest scraps of what amounted to thong knickers beneath when the aim was to have them perform weeding, squatting on their haunches? Probably not: But it was certainly a wonderfully imaginative way to put two teens in their places. Teetering on ridiculously high heels and sternly warned against laddering their unaccustomed nylons, neither could have been left in any doubt they were both now firmly under the rule of their governess. And she’d made them painstakingly pluck each weed with it griped primly between index finger and thumb, making for a most tedious and soul destroying task.

  What a treasure Daphne Larkspear was: There was little doubt that following their outing in ‘grown-up’ dress the two girls would have been practically desperate to be put back in the school dresses they usually disparaged so much. And what a grinding psychological defeat that must be to suffer - that would have lasting psychological repercussions for both of them, she didn’t doubt.

  Yes Miss Daphne Larkspear was indeed a treasure - but then, that was the problem.

  CHAPTER 3

  A GABARDINE SCHOOL RAINCOAT DAY

  It was with an undisguised amused chuckle that Daphne Larkspear held up the raincoat for the two girls’ inspection. It was regulation style double-breasted gabardine school mackintosh typical of the early 1960s. Manufactured in a light grey rubberised fabric and lined in a thick glossy bottle-green dominated tartan fabric it was fitted with a buckle belt supported by two keepers attached to the mackintosh one on either side of the waist.

  From the shoulders hung an attached hood with a square back and top, a common style on girl’s school raincoat hoods of that era. The hood had a similar lining, and both a buttoned flap that fastened under the chin, and two long tapes that could also be secured tightly under the chin. The thing was clearly quite heavy, smelled heavily of rubber and rustled with the slightest movement, the latter two characteristics testifying to the extra waterproofing layer of rubber that lay between the outer gabardine skin and the inner lining.

  Mrs Larkspear held the mackintosh up for Angel to slip into first, the stick-thin, flat-chested girl obediently slipping her arms back into the sleeves as the stern teacher-governess held it open for her. Moving around in front of the red-cheeked Angel as Alice looked on, a growing look of distaste crossing Alice’s face and a petulant pout forming on her lips, Mrs Larkspear fastened the buttons up to the girl’s neck before threading the belt through the grey plastic buckle and pulling it tight around Angel’s tint waist, pausing to secure the button at the end of the belt before stepping back to admire her handiwork.

  “I don’t envisage either of you being well behaved enough to be allowed out of the house other than very seldom, but if I should on occasion accord you this privilege, then you will wear your school uniform gabardine raincoat, fully buttoned up to the neck, tightly belted and with her hood up - whether rain or shine and without argument.” There came a unison groan from both girls. “Well, it’s up to you - personally I don’t care if either of you ever see the sun or the sky again. The raincoat is part of your school uniform, a school uniform that is both to my liking and Alice’s stepmother’s and we have both agreed that it will be very strictly enforced - at all times and for all occasions and functions. If you are going to be allowed outdoors, however briefly, we will insist that you wear a good, smart gabardine to go with your uniform. It’s either that or you don’t ever leave the confines of your dormitory and the schoolroom - I would think it over carefully if I were you. After all is said and done; I think I can honestly say that Lady Marchment and I really do know what is best for you children.

  Alice felt her fists clench, her nails - what there were of them - digging in to her palms, gouging her flesh as she’d like to gouge the woman’s eyes. She was bristling, but more with impotent frustration than with anger; she wanted to scream out that she wasn’t a child; she was a biologically grown woman, capable of having children of her own. But between them, her stepmother, her stepmother’s doctor friend and now this schoolteacher woman, they had her over a barrel - and that powerlessness was slowly stifling her, grinding down her rebellious spirit; her flame was gradually going out.

  She had been so free once, but she had taken that freedom for granted, failed to see it for the privilege it undoubtedly was. Now most days were squandered on her behalf, putting her through eight hours of written impositions. Home schooling consisted of drearily protracted lessons, copying out dictionary pages or writing punitive lines by the thousands, punctuated by breaks, with her pert nose pressed into the corner, or corporal discipline on those occasions when her posture is deemed to be anything less than perfect. Even using the ‘cloakroom’ was regimented, permitted only at set times, unless of course she wanted to use a commode chair set up front before the teacher’s desk.

  Then there was Angel, her only peer connection, if she could call that pathetic dried, wilted dispirited thing a peer. The girl had been reduced to an automaton with terror-filled eyes that would do anything to avoid displeasing her mistress, the domineering Mrs Larkspear, or ‘Miss Daphne’ as the two of them were humiliatingly obliged to address her as.

  “Pay attention, girl!” Mrs Larkspear’s harsh tones brought Alice back to reality with a start. “You’re not here to daydream. In fact you should think of yourself for all intents and purposes as back at school.”

  At 18? To Alice, her eyes momentarily locked angrily on the old-fashioned looking schoolmarm figure in front of her, it sounded ridiculous, impossible. And yet her eyes averted involuntarily, Alice finding herself unable to meet the woman’s stern gaze, her head bowed and her hands clasped themselves submissively in front of her school skirt as if having a will of their own, or rather as if under her teacher’s will.

  “I can guess what you are thinking. But you should see yourself as actually being very fortunate to be getting this chance to start anew. Perhaps you can make a success of your schooling this time... Hmmm? Now slip your arms into the sleeves of your school raincoat and we’ll get your gabardine all buttoned up and belted and your hood up ready for our little stroll out - what a lucky, lucky girl you are!” Alice felt her nose wrinkle with distaste as she felt her arms being guided back into the long sleeves and the cuffs being buttoned at her wrists. Over the top of the long-sleeved fully buttoned school cardigan she had on the gabardine raincoat felt hot already - and it wasn’t even buttoned up yet, let alone once the hood was put up and tied under her chin; Alice could only guess at the discomfort she would have to suffer then.

  This was to be the day’s exercise period, a walk around the enclosed gardens in the spitting rain, dressed like an absurdly out of date schoolgirl. It wasn’t destined to last too long. Alice had spotted an avenue to freedom and was determined to use it. The trouble was that her governess was equally observant; and every bit as determined.

  “You stupid, stupid girl, Alice; don’t you ever do that again! Do yo
u hear me?” Daphne Larkspear slapped Alice twice around the face, the dour Scot then grabbing her by the ear, twisting it painfully until the girl buckled at the waist. Alice, stunned and determined not to cry, did not resist as she was dragged back towards the main body of the house.

  “Not content with defacing the quadrangle’s walls - did you think I wouldn’t see, you little fool? ...” A white knuckled finger stabbed angrily to where a brick fragment, doubtless loosened by frost from the edging of one of the flanking raised flowerbeds, had been used to scratch a spidery orange-scared entreaty; faint but legible enough if one were kneeling, perhaps tending the shrubs and border plants that ranged in deceptively informal profusion. A sort of sneer of derision bracketed the continuation of the tirade: “... You had to start throwing stones up at the house - I watched you doing it, as soon as you thought my back was turned - I saw you tossing little pinches of gravel up at that window over the annexe, there.” She gave a little laugh: “I was tipped off.”

  She suddenly smiled up the figure that had first caught Alice’s eye, to where a dumpy, middle-aged woman in a lilac zip-fronted nylon overall, her grey-flecked tawny hair tied up in a lilac and white headscarf and clearly standing on a chair or set of steps now filled the offending frame. Brandishing a glass bottle containing a similarly lilac-hued substance in one hand and a yellow duster in the other, the woman was describing smeared sweeping mauve half-circles on the inside of the glass before polishing off with a practiced flourish using a second cloth plucked from a hip pocket in her work dress. The cleaning woman paused mid-sweep, acknowledging Mrs Larkspear’s smile with a cheery good-natured wave and smile of her own - the sort of sympathetic, understanding smile that told of the folly of a young girl’s hastily-built hopes structured too quickly around the unexpected appearance of a stranger in their midst.